


Write This In The Sky

by nitpickyabouttrains



Category: Josie and the Pussycats (2001)
Genre: DuJour - Freeform, DuJour means all the things, Gen, and how they survive, and how they work together, the fictional boy band, this is a fic about DuJour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitpickyabouttrains/pseuds/nitpickyabouttrains
Summary: The plane was in a free fall.“AHH,” screamed Travis, in his perfect high tenor.“AHH,” joined in Les, ion his lyric tenor.“AHH,” harmonized Marco, in his baritone.“AHH,” sang DJ, in his deep bass.
Relationships: Travis & Marco & DJ & Les
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Write This In The Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hi_irashay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hi_irashay/gifts).



> You wanted some humor. Well, I think I’m hilarious. Happy bonus cycles. I got you some ridiculousness.

The plane was in a free fall. 

“AHH,” screamed Travis, in his perfect high tenor. 

“AHH,” joined in Les, ion his lyric tenor. 

“AHH,” harmonized Marco, in his baritone. 

“AHH,” sang DJ, in his deep bass. 

Travis looked out the window at the fading figure of Wyatt and his parachute. What was going on? Was there a problem with the plane? Why had the pilot and Wyatt bailed without saying anything to anyone in the band?

“DuJour doesn’t mean dying,” Les wailed over the whooshing sounds of the wind and the screams of the other three boys. 

“DuJour means help!” Travis yelled back, because that was what they needed. Help. They were on a plane and it was falling from the sky. There was no pilot. There was no one but the four members of DuJour. 

They were going to have to help themselves. 

Travis looked around at his bandmates, the three guys he spent more time with than anyone else in the world. Sure, sometimes Marco stole his face. And sometimes the monkey pooped all over DJ’s things. But he knew them, and he knew they could figure this out. 

He turned to DJ, the smartest one of them all. “What should we do?” Travis asked, hoping against hope that DJ might have an idea. 

DJ shook his head, a look of terror on his face. “Can the monkey fly a plane?” he asked, looking over at Marco. 

Marco looked at the monkey, which was clinging to the wall, arms and legs both wrapped around a circle of the Target logo, which popped out and lit up. If the monkey  _ could  _ fly the plane, which seemed like a long shot, it was not in any condition to do it now. 

“I don’t think that’ll work,” Marco said. 

The plane was falling fast, they were running out of time. Travis looked around at his bandmates again. Marco was trying to pull the monkey off the wall. DJ was standing by Les, who was hugging his knees that were pulled up to his chest, and rocking back and forth. 

Les. 

That was the answer. 

“Les,” Travis said, going over to the other two men. “Les, what’s that video game you are always trying to get us all to play?”

Les was not the brightest. He was certainly the most emotional. But he loved video games. 

Les lifted his head a little. “X-Plane?”

Marco left the monkey and came over, too. “That’s right,” he said, catching on to what Travis was getting at. “You are always showing us how you can fly and stuff. How you can work the controls.”

“You’ve got to do it now,” Travis said, going behind his friends and opening up the door to the cockpit. “You’ve got to land us.”

Inside the cockpit alarms were blaring and lights were flashing. It was terrifying. Travis had no idea what any of it meant, but he knew it was not good. Through the cockpit window he could see that they were getting closer and closer to the ground, running out of time. 

Les’s eyes got wide and he hugged his legs tighter. “It’s just a game. It’s different.” 

“You are always telling us how it’s a simulator, right?” DJ jumped in. 

“Yeah,” Marco agreed. “It’ll be the same.”

Les shook his head and Travis could tell that Les was about to protest again. But they were running out of time and this was their best chance. 

Travis looked over Les’s head at DJ. Their eyes met and then Travis nodded with his chin at Les. DJ gave him a look of agreement. Together they each reached out and started to pull Les up out of his seat. 

He didn’t resist, exactly, or go limp. He let his bandmates pull him along, walking slowly. He shook his head the whole time. 

“Just like in the game,” DJ said. “Come on.”

Marco came around and held open the door so that DJ and Travis could bring Les in. 

As soon as Les was in the control room, he seemed to still. The shaking of his head stopped and his stance got firmer, enough so that Travis felt okay letting go of his arm. 

“How does it look?” Travis asked, trying to keep his voice calm. “Familiar?”

“I- I think so,” Les agreed. 

And then he was moving, sitting down in the chair, his hands going to the toggles and buttons and levers. 

Travis had no idea what he was doing, but the plane suddenly jerked and their fall was starting to feel less like a plunge and more like a normal landing. 

“I can’t tell where we are,” Marco said. “Are we near an airport?”

“I don’t think we can make it to an airport,” Les said. “The fuel lines were cut. I need to get it down now.”

“There,” DJ pointed, looking out the front window. Below them seemed to be a city, mostly. Or at least a suburb or a town. It was busy, that was for sure. But DJ was pointing at an open looking field area. There was a lead up to it that looked like a parking lot. 

The parking lot had some cars, like something might be starting there soon. But it was the closest thing to a safe place to put the plane down that they had. 

“Okay,” Les said, a look of concentration taking over his face. 

The alarms did not stop going off, but Les was bringing them down, slowly. The plane was still going really fast, but now they were approaching the ground at a less terrifying angle. 

“Everyone, grab onto something,” Marco yelled, as the ground started to approach. They all grabbed each other and anything they could, while Les kept his hands on the controls. 

One second they were in the air and the next the belly of the plane was scraping across the ground. The sound of metal tearing and pulling overcame the sounds of the alarms, until it was all Travis could hear. 

Sparks burst up around the windows as the plane careened forward, skidding to a halt right in front of what appeared to be an arena. 

“I did it,” Les whispered, almost to himself. Then he looked up, a grin on his face, and repeated himself much louder. “I did it!”

“Yeah, man, you did!” Travis shouted, clasping his bandmate on the shoulder. 

“We’re alive!” DJ yelled, doing a small dance. 

“DuJour means success,” Les said, pleased with himself. 

Marco was already moving toward the door. “Let’s get off this thing and figure out where we are.” He stopped and his monkey jumped onto his shoulder, before Marco pushed open the door to the plane. 

Metal stairs fell from the open door and the four men stepped off the plane, ready to be done with it and back on the ground. Travis did not want to have to think about getting back into the air. Of course, they had fans out there, waiting for them, a tour. But all of that could wait until they figured out what happened with Wyatt. 

They were so caught up in their joy, in being alive, that they did not realize they were not alone. 

“Ugh, guys?” DJ said, suddenly sounding a lot less happy then he had a second before. 

Marco, Les, and Travis all looked up. 

There were people all around them, and even more gathering. They were mostly men, but not all, dressed in blacks and dark colors. There was a lot of silver and metal. The people looked sharp, pointed. They were whispering and pointing at the members of DuJour. 

DuJour was famous. All four of the boys were used to being looked at, being whispered about. Usually, when their plane landed there were legions of fans swarming them, wanting pictures and autographs. 

This felt different. 

There were no girls with signs. No screams of ‘I love you’ or ‘Marry me’. But then, it wasn’t where they were scheduled to be. Of course their fans didn’t know to expect them there. 

“Excuse me, bro,” Travis said, to the nearest man, who was stalking up to them. “Where are we?”

“I’m not your  _ bro _ ,” the man sneered, his black eye makeup making it look particularly sinister. “And where you are is in the parking lot for a Metallica concert. You guys fans?”

All four members of DuJour shrugged. In unison. 

“These guys look like that teen band my kid likes,” another man said, crossing his arms. “What are they called.”

“DuJour,” Les said, grinning helpfully. 

Marco lifted the monkey and nodded. 

DJ lifted his hands just a little and waved his fingers in the air. 

Travis tried to give a reassuring smile. “We could use some help.”

“You heard the man,” the first guy said. He seemed to be the ringleader. “Let’s give them a hand.”

The mass of people who had been crowding around the plane surged forward. Travis took a deep breath. And then there were fists and knees. 

Hair was pulled and punches were thrown. Travis lost sight of his friends. Of the plane. Of everything. 

“DuJour means fighting back!” He heard DJ yell, somewhere off to his left. 

“DuJour means running away!” came a distant and breathless reply from Les. 

“DuJour means getting out of here,” Marco added. 

There was a large explosion and heat. So much heat. Fire. Travis could see the plane now, and he could see that they were not going to be able to use it again. It was being engulfed by flames. 

“DuJour means together,” Travis said, feeling a rush of adrenaline coursing through him. He pushed himself up onto his feet. 

He pushed and shoved his way over to where he had heard Les before, finding the other boy. “Together,” Les agreed. 

Travis pulled Les up on to his feet, and stood with him, back to back, both of them with their fists up. Les was slightly less injured then Travis was, and he was humming something under his breath, something that seemed to be keeping the Metallica fans away. 

But the people around them seemed to be losing interest in the fight. There was a hard pounding of a bass and the electric strum of a guitar coming from speakers in the distance. The concert must have been starting. 

It felt like just a second, and then there were so few people around that Travis could see all his bandmates. DJ was laying on the ground a few feet away. Marco was on his knees, the monkey limp in his arms. 

Slowly the four of them limped together, supporting each other. At least they were all still alive. 

“DuJour means survival,” he said, looking over the heads of his bandmates, at the blazing fires of the plane crash. 

“No,” said Les, “DuJour means revenge.” 

As the words left Les’s mouth, he knew that Les was right. They would get better, they would get back, and they would get satisfaction. 


End file.
